


Worth the Wait

by texastoasted



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-27
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:33:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22927999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/texastoasted/pseuds/texastoasted
Summary: Judy, a single mother of eight raucous boys that were often in trouble, was familiar to a pitying look. It was difficult to make friends when she couldn't talk about her past, to explain that she had once been someone that would surely be the object of awe and envy of everyone in this town. There was an entire part of her life that remained under lock and key, that had taken place in more countries than she could count on two hands and a string of lovers that had bought her exotic things and sired her children. There had been one, a best friend from France, and he had been the most special person she'd ever met. She thought of him often, and would often wonder with terrible pangs in her heart if things could have been different. Maybe there was still time.A backstory for one of the most underrated ladies in tf2 and her love affair with Spy.
Relationships: RED Spy/Scout's Mother, Scout's Mother/Spy (Team Fortress 2)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 32





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I decided to rewrite this fic, as I haven’t been happy for a while with how it began and was unsure how to continue with the way I started it. This is the first chapter of the rewritten version and the old version has been removed! Thanks for reading and i hope you enjoy!
> 
> This is a fic I've always wanted to write about Scout's mum - raising eight kids on her own and meeting Spy is a story I wanted to explore !! I hope you enjoy :,)

Steam billowed about the bathroom in warm, thick clouds, blanketing the mirror in moist fog. Judy plucked a folded washcloth off the edge of the pristine porcelain sink and buffed a circle in the glass, her rouged face coming into view, blurred by the streaks of water. She looked at herself for a long minute, watching her eyes flit minutely back and forth over mascara-swollen eyelashes that were beginning to weep with steam, tracking thin grey lines down her cheeks. As usual, she pressed fingertips to her forehead and frowned, and then applied pressure to the corners of her eyes, and the corners of her mouth, as she had watched her mother do. Judy exhaled and drew herself up to her full height, attempting to study herself impassively, as a stranger would - how old did she look? She was twenty-three, and still looked eighteen, no real lines had appeared on her creamy skin. Judy watched for them vigilantly and applied an expensive French cream every night just to be sure. Abigail had made a comment, once, when she asked Judy to rifle through the little bag on the kitchen sink and fetch her lipstick, that this job gave you lines faster than anything else. Abigail’s lipstick was a dark, crimson red, like a wine stain upon her mouth. Judy bought the best cream she could find.

It was a young girl’s fantasy, to imagine being out of this line of work when she was young - Abigail had confirmed for her that it was the type of job one left in a box. But there were others, she had relented, when Judy pestered. There were others, who had done enough to please and were able to be honorably retired, and if Judy had an image of herself retiring with only a few lines on her face and her figure still sharp, that was her own private dream, wasn’t it? With a sigh, Judy let her skin relax and stepped back across the bathroom to reach into the scented tub, fishing for the drain plug. She held her towel, cinched across her chest, and looked down her nose at the swirling water, gurgling, as it swept down the drain. It was a clawfoot tub, the type she had always dreamt about when she was a little girl, splashing about in her parent’s pink porcelain beast. An elegant bath, with one slender hand reaching out to pick up a chocolate-covered strawberry off a gilded plate, something like that. She’d stayed in this hotel before - one of her first trips when she started this job was Paris, and this elegant hotel with its vaulted ceilings and men who carried everything around for her. Now, she was used to it. Judy had been starstruck, and now she was just around wistful, as if coming back to this room was like meeting an old friend that you had rather grown apart from.

Her makeup removed, Judy sat on the edge of the vast, plush circular bed, tucking a stray tendril of dark hair up into the towel that rested on top of her head like a crown. She felt fatigued, in a way that was unusual. She had, after all, only spent the day wrapped up in a beige trench coat, sunglasses, and headscarf, perpetually sipping a coffee and watching the boats on the Seine. Or, at least, that’s what it looked like she was doing. When the object of her observation packed up for the day and went home, Judy went back to her hotel, and was left with a sagging spine and a feeling of persistent dread. She had mentioned it, a few months ago, to Abigail. Her mentor had said that it was just loneliness, or homesickness, or maybe she had caught a little cold? Abigail had felt that way once, but obviously she had gotten rid of it, like she got rid of all of her other problems. Judy envied her - she was brisk, effortless. Not unfeeling, but like she had proper control of the flow, able to shut herself off at just the right moment. It was all right to be struggling a little bit, Abigail had told her, not unkindly. They were all there once. But it would fade eventually, and likely with it the other parts of herself that contributed to caring about things.

Judy let herself fall backwards onto the silken sheets, her arms splayed like a corpse. It was difficult to believe, at times, that she had been in this business for three years. Three entire years of her life, that had gone slow at first but then sped up rapidly until she couldn’t remember anything but Abigail’s wine-stain mouth telling her things, and a lot of flying here and there and things like that. It was bliss, Abigail described to her, to be a woman unconstrained by the conventional roles of society, to play them the way that they wished to. To fly here and there, and to eat the finest things and wear the finest clothes, and to manipulate men and sometimes women that their government dictated. Unattached to anything or anyone. Judy had asked if she would be allowed to write to her parents, and to her surprise, Abigail had said yes - but the first time her parents wrote back to her they complained about the state of the letter Judy had sent them. Parts scratched out, the letter crumpled. It was obvious that someone had gone through it to make sure she wasn’t saying anything compromising. They had even scratched out some things that she had thought weren’t even that revealing. It was a strange kind of resignation, to be told you were free but really on a long leash, as it was a leash nonetheless. She didn’t write so often anymore. What could she say? The first year had been a whirlwind, a lot of training and so much information that her head felt close to exploding. Her first mission had been supervised, of course, with Abigail, but then she was pretty much left to her own devices. It was difficult to remember everything that had transpired - there were many memories of Harry in there, and particularly good food in Brussels, and the first time she had killed someone.

Maybe that had been the tipping point, the point at which she dove into the pit of tar of this line of work and left her old self behind to stand on the shore and clutch her pearls. The point of no return. It was easy, still, to make simple decisions - she had always liked blue, and it was easy to choose the colors of her luggage. But there were other things that felt lost in a confusing muck, muddled with her other identities, the women she had assumed to slink in and infiltrate and execute in dark alleys with the tails of her headscarf whipping in a fierce wind, as if the elements themselves were howling. Either for herself or in mourning for the poor bastard she was sent after. Who had she been before? Eighteen years of life weren’t very much, especially when she had only begun to really discover who she was towards the end. Who was she? Would her parents recognize her now? Was she a real person underneath the personas that she shifted through like playing cards? Without the different passports she held in her pocketbook, would the girl underneath simply dissolve and fade away with the wind, a meaningless mist?

It was difficult to remember everywhere she had been, everyone she had been. How many people she had killed. Judy had sworn she wouldn’t lose count - they were bad people, obviously, but it was still taking a life. That had gone out the window a while ago. She wanted to remember, to maybe have to tell someone one day. A little someone, who would wonder who their mother had been in her prime.

Judy sat up abruptly and strode across the room to her suitcase - she had wandered into a little bookshop the other day, while stalking her target, and found a little blue leather notebook. She had bought it; there was always something to write down, but it had so far sat unused. Judy weighed it in her hand. It was a sturdy, heavy little thing, a lot of pages. Slim enough to hide easily. Her heart began to beat quickly. There was obviously no written memo that said,  _ it’s forbidden to write things down in a notebook _ , but also, it was obvious that something like this would be forbidden. Any written record, or passport, or tickets that left a trace of where she had been or who she had been was promptly destroyed after she was done with it. She was rather meant to forget, and to certainly not tell anyone. The weight of having this information in her head and no one to talk to it about was explosive -  _ well _ , Abigail would say incredulously if Judy was ever caught,  _ you could have talked to me about it _ . There wasn’t supposed to be any record of anything, but that meant there was also no record of her, the individual person. For a moment, Judy felt ridiculous and almost put the notebook back. What would she even write down? She could barely remember the past few years. She could maybe sum up her lunch orders, that she had always wished to have a house painted baby blue. Snippets of a person, but they were all she had, and maybe that was good enough for now.

It was a dangerous act of rebellion. They were intended to shed each identity after it was used, and not invoke much of their past selves. They were supposed to be, after all, blank slates perfect covers could be projected onto. She would surely face consequences if she was caught.  _ Haven’t we been good to you, Judy _ ? 

That could be her first thing to write down about herself. She had always been a little mischievous. 

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just as a reminder, this fic has been rewritten, so please go back and read the updated first chapter if you're just tuning in for this new update!! thanks for reading!!

Judy paused, the tip of her pen resting on one lip. She quickly removed it - there had been an incident, last week, where she had nibbled on it a little too much and it had burst, drenching her hand and chin and frilly blouse in ink. It was an easy enough accident to explain to the person that came and picked up her cleaning, but it felt like a divine warning all the same to cease writing this infernal document. This permanent piece of herself, maybe the only tangible thing she would be allowed to smuggle home if she retired with an existing heartbeat. There had been lots of things that made her heartbeat go up - filching documents where she narrowly avoided being caught, things like that. However, hiding the little notebook seemed to be the worst. Judy moved it often - it was easy enough to find places to hide it in the hotel room, but she didn’t trust the maid service. She had wrestled with keeping it on her when she went out, just for safekeeping, but that was too risky. It had gone inside the middle of the mattress, to the floorboards, to the roof. It was now in the false lining of her suitcase. Not her best spot, but it would have to do. It seemed as if now that Judy had begun writing things down, memories and experiences at random, in one crude, unorganized, and hurried account, they became easier and easier to remember. It was as if she had removed the stopper that was keeping the memories bottled up, and now she had to be careful her hand did not cramp for writing so much, lest it falter on the trigger of her pistol.

Judy supposed it was time to write about Harry. She wanted to be tactful about it, the image of her passing on this document to one or many little someones persisted as the go-to mental picture. Not all the details of their sordid affair. They had met on her first partnership mission, which she had felt all kinds of things about, nervous and excited and mostly a lot of touching up her hair. There was the overall pressure to perform, of course, but also an opportunity to share with somebody what she was going through. The homesickness, the unease. The odd feeling of enjoying your life but being able to tell no one about it. And Judy had had that, for a while. Harry was handsome, movie-star handsome, with dimples. There had been Matthew, of course, in high school. They had been together for three years, which was ages in high school time. They had never  _ done _ anything, Matthew was a good Christian boy, and she was supposed to be a good Christian girl. Saying goodbye to him had made her a little tearful first, but she’d gotten over it faster than she thought she would. After all, he was part of something Judy was supposed to shed for her new life. He’d also been a bit dorky - she’d always found him cute, endearing. Holding the door open for her and such, and bringing her hydrangeas from his mother’s front yard. But Harry was different. Harry was a grown man, and he would hold the door open for her, but look at her behind for a rather long time as she walked by. It felt exciting to be wanted to by him, to be pursued. Judy had what she wanted. It was with him that she tried her first cigarette, too, laying in silk sheets and feeling out of breath and like she was a very different person than the good girl that cried if she got anything less than a perfect score on an exam.

It had been stupid to dream, Judy knew that now, chastising herself endlessly. She had once thought about the rest of their life together, on missions, him daringly saving her life and over and over again, and then they would go back to the hotel and lock themselves up with each other for hours. It was, after all, almost handed to her. Abigail’s advice to her had been to dissolve herself into the partnership. To not be a single unit, but a cohesive, seamless one of two people. Judy was prepared to do that, but it was as if once she got into it with Harry, she couldn’t pull back, like accidentally stepping into a pit of quicksand. Whatever soul and life he’d had inside him had died long ago. Maybe it was why he was in this line of work, or maybe the work had done that to him. Judy wouldn’t call him careless in terms of business, ever, but he was careless with her. She would try to talk to him about how she was feeling, and always get the sensation that he looked down upon her for not having drowned her feelings out in scotch. Naive, maybe. He would ask her to do things for him, and she would do them. It was a partnership. She was not supposed to be an individual, but then, neither was he, and that wasn’t exactly the agreement that was being upheld. Thankfully, their mission together ended after a few months, and Judy wasn’t too sorry to see him go. He didn’t seem too sad, either, but that wasn’t really a surprise. There had been a few other men, after Harry, but they were week-long things at the most. She was constantly moving and couldn’t really get close to anyone that wasn’t in the business - come to think of it, anyone at all. Although she had been sure that there was something cracked inside of Harry, evident in the dead-eyed stare that dully fixated on her behind the gaze she had once found irresistible, plain in the simple way he did not seem to care if she lived or died, Judy couldn’t help but think about him. It seemed as if she had broken a promise to herself, made a mistake she could talk about with no one, only kick herself over and over for being so stupid.

It was just fine that she had been on solitary missions since. Judy had learned to rely on herself, which was the type of thing they encouraged you to do in high school, but this was  _ really _ relying on yourself. She was told that long-term partnerships only persisted with agents that worked especially well together, or if the situation called for it. There was a lot that was murky - Abigail told her what she needed to know, and nothing else. The other woman was skillful at making it seem like she was conversational, like her guard could be let down. If Judy had gotten one thing from Abigail, it was her skill at reading other people. What would she want her children to know about Harry? Judy tapped the pen against her thumb, and then hunched over the notebook, fingertips pressing the spine of the paper flat. She would not give him the luxury of having used her.  _ He taught me a lot about myself.  _ That was true enough, the perfect type of thing to tell a child. 

Judy was tired when she finished her careful notation. It was always a bit rushed, when she looked back, but she supposed it would be a while before she could shake the feeling that someone was about to walk in on her. It was no matter, she could use these haphazard and out of order memories as notes. She was fatigued, but in a satisfying way. Judy stowed the notebook in her suitcase. As her fingers were leaving the zipper, a sharp knock sounded at the door of her room. She hesitated for a fraction of a second and then smoothed her skirt, ordering her face back into careful neutrality.

“Abigail!”

“Judy,” the other woman greeted her, mouth twisting up in a quick smile. She was here to give an update about something, Judy assessed quickly, not to tell her that she was about to be taken out back and shot for keeping an unapproved ledger.

“How are things going?” Abigail asked, taking a seat on the edge of her bed. She removed a stocking-wrapped foot from its black heel and rubbed it. Abigail often reminded her of a poisonous tropical fish, the type of thing that people would coo at, but then it would pump you full of venom. Her manner, often orbiting around the region of them possibly being pals in another life, was much preferred over outright hostility, but Judy was aware of its danger all the same. Abigail had become something of a big sister to her, as one of the overseers in the program, the type who you were slightly intimidated by.

“Just fine,” Judy answered, smoothly. “Is there a problem?”

Abigail was looking at her suitcase. Judy felt a slight pricking of sweat gathering on the back of her neck.

“No problem,” the other women answered cheerfully, bringing her gaze back up to Judy’s. “You’re already packed, then?”

“Oh. Not really. Just some dirty clothes I was keeping separate from the wardrobe.”

“Well, get those cleaned. You’re leaving in two days, for the south of France. You can cease your observations on your target, I’ll see to it that your replacement is updated.”

Despite herself, Judy felt a twinge of hurt. “Have I done something wrong?”

Abigail raised her eyebrows. “Have you? I’m just kidding. Of course not. You’ve been selected for a special assignment. Well, really, I selected you, so please be sure to not mess it up.”

“All right,” Judy agreed, deeming this explanation acceptable. “What kind of assignment?”

“It’s a long one. Undercover, for at least a year. Your partner is already waiting there,” Abigail said offhandedly, casting her gaze to the engravings on the ceiling.

“Oh,” she answered, puzzled. “I’d thought I was off partnerships.”

“That was a year and a half ago,” Abigail reminded her. “Anyway, you’re perfect for it. I’ve deemed you’re ready to go back on. You’ll be fine, really. I’m hoping you’ll enjoy it. Pack up, get your things cleaned, I’ll have your documents and tickets sent to you tomorrow.”

“All right. Thank you.” Judy folded her hands together, and Abigail got to her feet, emitting a small groan as she replaced her shoe. She waved goodbye, and did not sit for several moments, frozen in place by an abstract perhaps - what would it be like. The south of France would be lovely at this time of year, Judy steeled herself. It would be fine, she would make it fine. 

She fished out her notebook.  _ 18th of May, prepared to leave for s. France. Felt nervous - a partnership begins. _

  
  



	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi! i'm kind of on hiatus right now, all of my writing energy is being directed towards finishing my novel :) but writing tf2 fic is still a fun change of pace and i wanted to update something!! updates will likely be slow for a few months more and then i'm hoping to post more often. i hope you enjoy more scoutma and her introduction to spy!! thanks for reading !

The train whistle cut through the blue of the sky like a knife through butter. Judy rested her gloved hands on her lap and checked her reflection in the glare off the train window, tilting her chin this way and that. He would probably kiss her, she mused. It would be a little thing, maybe a couple seconds if he was either feeling piggish or devoted to his character. It could go on to define the rest of their partnership - every time they were supposed to be putting on a show, she would be behind her beaming mask, painted lips fixed, thinking  _ get it over with quickly _ . Maybe they would have a confrontation about it.  _ You’re a bad kisser _ , she would scream, and he would go,  _ fuck you,  _ and one of them would probably kill the other and their mission would be marked as a failure. Is that how she would be found, dead in a French apartment with an expression of twisted rage permanently marring her delicate features? Judy sighed to herself, a quick burst of air through her nose. It was easier to speculate than to simply sit there and wait. 

The countryside was beautiful. She caught glimpses of the ocean and vast fields of shimmering green. Judy had already gone over the file. It had a picture of him, of course, so she knew who to look for at the station, but collarbones up only. His face looked up at her from the paper, almost smugly. He looked French.  _ Hugo. _ It was a cover name, of course, and she was to be Adeline. They were supposed to have married in Lyon. He was a painter, and she was a homemaker. His assistant, sometimes, but her role was muted. Abigail had assured her that the Duke was handsy, and she would have a much better chance of getting closer to him - but of course it was Hugo that got to have the job. Their target was retired, supposedly, in this town, and wanted equally by the French and American governments. Abigail had included a snippet about some whistleblowing, treason, but that was just their side of things. The main point was that he was a crafty bastard, and he’d fucked over something in London too - but the man they’d sent to gather information was found out rather quickly. It was a quaint undercover job for them - Hugo a snobby, brooding, particular portrait painter who would of course eventually be recruited by the vain Duke, and she, who was supposed to sit there and hold the palette and look attractive. 

The train screeched to a stop, and the platform was descended upon by noise - there was a flurry of people outside, coming and going. Judy gathered her things. It was now or never.

She saw him almost immediately, standing against the wall against the station. He looked like his picture - clean-shaven, the protruding nose, the tousled black curls resting just so above his forehead, like a flower arrangement. Hugo looked remarkably simple in a wrinkled linen shirt and brown pants, so much so that Judy was almost tempted to sweep her gaze around for someone else that looked more like her. He simply looked as if he was part of the landscape, some mildly poor man that had never seen the outside of this town. He was holding flowers, she saw, and smiled easily when he saw her. 

“Ah,  _ ma cherie _ .” Hugo swept her up in a hug - he was a good deal taller than her, and smelled of cigarettes and paint. French accent. Judy wrinkled her nose. A kiss was planted on her cheek - her cheek! - and the flowers crinkled behind her back, in their wrapping. “Was your journey safe, Adeline?”

“Yes,” she breathed, and took the flowers from him. “Thank you, they’re beautiful.”

“They pale in comparison to you,” he said, a touch of wistful sadness gathering in the corners of his eyes. He looked genuine, and Judy immediately hated him for it.

Hugo’s car was a small, beat-up thing. He put her luggage in the back for her, and then looked at her for a brief second before starting the car, Judy’s hands folded neatly on her lap. They were both silent until they were on the road, whizzing along down the hill towards the town.

“So,” he began, fumbling with the crushed pack of cigarettes in his pocket. “Have you read it?”

“Yes,” she answered. It was an easy enough story - he had moved here six months ago, to set up their apartment while she waited back at their old apartment in Paris. The city was too busy and loud, was the story. Interfered with his skill. The Duke would no doubt look into them, but their background was solid. Did he think she was an amateur?

“Good,” he said simply. “Do you smoke?”

“I don’t make a habit of it.”

He glanced at her. “Good for you. Are you hungry?”

“I could eat.”

Judy turned her face to look out the window and listened to him light the cigarette. Soon, she would probably reek of smoke too, like one of his old easels.

Judy snapped awake to the sound of someone tapping gently on glass. Hugo was grinning at her from outside the car. He opened the door for her and outstretched his hand.

“Tired?”

“That would be why I fell asleep,” she answered coolly, taking his hand and looking around the dim street. It was full of leaning buildings that looked like they were falling asleep themselves.

He held his hands up. “I didn’t mean to offend. I will get your things, if you could shut the door?”

Judy obliged, following him down an alley, slightly kicking herself. She should really be a little nicer to him. She’d had barely an hour to judge him, and yet something about him was already rubbing her the wrong way. In a sense, her intuition was what had kept her alive in this job, but what was she supposed to do in a situation like this? Slap it lightly on the wrist and tell it to keep quiet? He was leading her up the stairs to a predictably shabby apartment, and fumbling with the keys. Judy studied the back of his neck with resignation. 

“You must be hungry. I have a little food here. Tomorrow, I can show you where the market street is, hm?”

“All right,” she answered, following him inside. It was more spacious than she imagined - there were big windows, with several easels and paintings covered by tarps resting on the ground, buckets full of paintbrushes resting on top of stacks of books. Judy tilted her head to get a better look at the portrait shrouded in shadow that was currently sitting on the easel, and raised her eyebrows. It wasn’t bad. It was actually very, very good. 

She was looking at a bunch of flowers resting in a vase of water on the kitchen table when Hugo reappeared.

“I can show you the rest, madame Adeline?”

It was an artist’s apartment. Hugo was supposed to be successful, but not elevated to the status of royal portrait artist or anything like that. There was the one bedroom, which her blue suitcase was resting in, and a tiny bathroom, and one more room, which was absolutely stacked full of paintings. Hugo excused himself to go prepare the food, and Judy stood by herself in the bedroom, testing the springiness of the mattress with one hand and a healthy dose of apprehension. 

“So,” Hugo said around a mouthful of bread. “Tomorrow. I can show you the market street, how to do the laundry, all of it. I have to get to an appointment in the afternoon, and then I’ll be back. If there’s anything you need-”

“I’m sure I’ll be fine by myself,” Judy told him, and forced a smile behind her glass of wine.

His chewing slowed, and he looked at her with mirth. “You don’t like me, huh?”

“I don’t know you,” she answered curtly.

“It’s okay,” he replied, waving his hand. “You’ll warm up to me.”

“We’ll see.”

Hugo snorted a laugh. “You’re kind of rude. I like it.”

Judy shot him a look. Hugo popped a piece of cheese into his mouth and ignored her line of vision. “Where are you from?”

She lowered her glass from her lips, and Hugo smiled, dimples appearing at the corners of his mouth. “Ah, you’re one of those types. Let me give you some advice- what they tell you? To not share anything? It’s to keep us in line, so we don’t make friends and rebel. This job goes a lot easier and gets a lot less boring if you do. Relationships seem more natural. Could save your life.” 

When she did not say anything, he shrugged. “Suit yourself. I just have one question that you absolutely must answer correctly, or else I will kill you and they will send me another one, because I am now the best painter in the south of France. Do you snore?”

“No.” Judy answered flatly.

“ _ Bien _ . You are a cute one.”

Judy lay awake long after Hugo had gone to sleep - or at least, he was making convincing breathing noises, clutching the covers tightly to her chest. What the hell had she walked into? Indignant thoughts sputtered through her head, as if she could finally articulate why she had sensed immediately that she disliked him, and now the words would not stop.  _ Narcissistic. Self-obsessed. Cocky. Arrogant. Condescending. Rebellious. Flirtatious. Twentysomething idiot with a massive ego who thinks he’s god’s gift to art and women. Probably going to get both of us killed.  _ She could see exactly what he wanted to happen - for her to be wooed, for her to tell him everything about herself, for him to clench the fist of power. It was cathartic to muse about him. Of course he would have an inflated sense of self, it was every young man’s dream to be a secret agent, stuck in a beautiful country with a beautiful girl who he saw as a challenge to be overcome. 

Underneath the blanket, Judy seethed silently to herself until she fell asleep, and woke up irritated to the sound of a crowing rooster. 


End file.
